


bandaids over bruises

by Star_less



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Cussing, Desperation, Embarrassment, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, I reject the canon and substitute my own, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Beta Read, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: The First Avenger Compliant, Omorashi, One Shot Collection, Outdoor Peeing, Paruresis, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sorry Not Sorry, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve centric, Steve gets drafted into ww2, Super Soldier Serum, Super Soldier Serum effects, Wetting, bladdershy, dead dove do not eat, everybody is friends, not a very tight hug though he will explode, peeing in things that aren't a toilet, teased stony, teased stucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_less/pseuds/Star_less
Summary: put a bandaid over a bruise and while it may seem like it's helping, it doesn't really do much. As Steve so finds when, desperate - in more ways than one - he jumps at the chance to change who he is with this magical, mystical, super soldier serum. But all isn't as it seems, in fact in some ways, he ends up feeling a little worse.(one time Steve wished he didn't have the smallest bladder in all of Brooklyn, and four times he messily dealt with the consequences.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 47





	1. pre-serum, post serum, still the same loser

**Author's Note:**

> Okay let me sell this to you: five chapters, each a mini fic in and of themselves, full of omorashi, centred on Steve & the relationships above, give or take. One chapter each night. I promise!  
> It'll be fun, if you like this sort of thing, although I HATED history at school (sorry, Mr. S!) so any war references within will probably be wildly inaccurate but let's face it if you got this far you're here for piss not accuracy. PS, stick around for the last chapter cos it's my favourite. :-)
> 
> I will warn you though it's pretty stony/Steve centric...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Steve couldn't remember that part, it all blurred into a mess of screaming red white and blue - considering all he remembered about the rest of that afternoon was having the best God-given piss of his life, one that made his knees turn to jelly and his head tilt back._

Pulling the thin rubber tube closer, Steve shifted uncomfortably as he watched water run in a thin stream into the bottom of the tin tub… then wincing at the sound of the water ringing noisily in the communal bathing area. Don’t get him wrong - baths were a rarity while he was drafted into war, but right now they were… a very, very much needed rarity that Steve was glad to be having - but…  
His thighs were damp, so damp they were cold and sticky and they itched right down to his bones. It… it wasn’t his fault, really it wasn’t… shedding his clothes quickly the young soldier slipped into the warm water and sighed, slumping back against the cold metal band of the tub and relishing the sensation of warmth pouring into his chilled bones.  
For a long slow moment that (thankfully) seemed to hang around for an eternity Steve settled into the silence, his eyes closing peacefully.  
But that was all it was; a moment. The second the familiar sound of his… colleagues pouring into the bathing area drifted to Steve’s ears his eyes snapped open and he quickly began to scrub at his legs, ducking down as small as he could go in an attempt not to be seen. 

“Finally having a bath, huh, Rogers?” someone ribbed softly, although Steve wasn’t looking up so he didn’t pay much mind to it. “That has to go around the rest of us, y’know.”  
“Thank God,” someone else muttered, staring down Steve as he seemed to try and submerge himself deeper and deeper into the water. “He needs it. Shouldn’t share a sleeping trench with Rogers or he’ll piss all over ya. Like a goddamned puppy.” “You ain’t seen him out there on the front line? Spends more time in the pisser than out there with the rest of us.”  
Steve was still trying his hardest not to pay any attention, scrubbing his arms and legs with a loofah and breathing heavily in out in out in out—  
Somewhere along the way his vision blurred and he seemed to lose time, as suddenly Steve found himself waking up with a voice in his ears, a familiar voice all sweet and soft. “Stevie? Hey Stevie, breathe with me, there y’go,” cooed the voice all calm and enchanting and then suddenly Steve crashed into a wakened state once more, owlish blue eyes milky with tears and staring into the intoxicatingly brown eyes of one James Buchanan Barnes.  
“Bucky,” Steve gasped and his voice came out broken, fragmented, though he wasn’t crying. He fought to blindly grab a handful of Bucky’s shirt as though he were dreaming. Bucky’s hands - all calloused - were a constant against the small of Steve’s back. “Oh, Stevie, sweetheart,” Bucky cooed softly, notes of concern in his voice, “it happened again?”  
Steve whimpered a little… which was enough of a response for Bucky who simply continued to pat Steve’s back until he’d pulled himself together a suitable amount. 

“I hate this, I hate myself,” was the first thing Steve groaned when he had indeed pulled himself together a suitable amount, pushing the palms of his hands to his eyes to drive away the tears. Bucky shook his head. Steve had been saying things like this more and more these past few weeks, and it stung him to hear. “…No, you don’t, Stevie.” he insisted, taking Steve’s gaze and holding it in the hope Steve would suddenly start believing him, trusting the words that came out of his mouth. 

“You wouldn’t say that if you were me.” He mumbled, near dejected. The asthma Steve could cope with, his stature was embarrassing but he got over it… the bedwetting was something else entirely, an embarrassing, shameful symptom courtesy of a not-so-new issue that he had been trying to hide for a long, long time. If it had been something that had plagued him during his first few days of being drafted in, that was somehow… bearable - not ideal by a long shot, but bearable. But now… for it to be happening now… for Steve to have made a name for himself because of something that remained so irritably out of his control… it was incredibly frustrating. His eyes welled with a thin veil of tears but he brushed them off easily as Bucky took ahold of both his hands. “It’ll be fine, Steve, these things happen sometimes,” Bucky said kindly - frustratingly, irritatingly too kindly. “Share with me tonight, it’s fine.”  
Steve looked toward Bucky, unsure. “Buck,” he near stuttered, “I—I..”

“Steve, it’ll be fine. I’m not going to tease you.” Bucky insisted, and oh how did he want to capture Steve’s lips (even if they were plumped with tears) in a kiss at that moment… but they couldn’t, he couldn’t, and he had to settle for squeezing Steve’s hands tightly instead; smiling when the gesture resulted in Steve offering him a papery thin sort of smile. 

Close enough. 

Or not when he had been discharged with immediate effect just a few short days afterwards. It seemed inevitable and also not at all, when every morning waking up soaked, or bursting at the seams, or having to stop and run to the closest latrine quick all the damn time just added to the anxiety that this was it and one day all of this would be gone, all because he couldn’t control himself. The sensation of anxiety lashing on his back disappeared remarkably quickly, even as he squirmed into himself in Dr Erskine’s pokey office. Last-minute health checks, apparently, before they threw you out into the world up shit creek without a paddle, somehow a veteran and yet still the same loser you always had been. Steve scoffed. Health checks indeed. And then - and then in sauntered Dr Erskine, in he sauntered with that shifty look on his face and spoke of this magic potion, this super-soldier serum. Steve felt like a kid on Christmas morning all over again - the chance to enhance— _change!_ —who he was when being enlisted had ground him into the dirt shone, gold plated and twinkling, there in front of him. 

“Yes!”

Well.  
Steve had hoped that the super-soldier serum would have had a positive effect on his... not-so-strong parts... and realised with an almost sinking heart that the full bladder he had entered Howard Stark's magic pod with was... still just as full with urges just as strong - hell, if not stronger - once he was out. "Wow!" Howard had marvelled softly at him - not that Steve was listening, his mind overtaken by a rather overwhelming thought of... of...

"It worked!"

Holy fuck, did he have to piss.  
"Thanks," Steve felt himself say but couldn't hear himself through the thudding in his heart and the roaring in his ears. He pressed his legs tighter together and shifted, bunching his hands in and out of fists for good measure. "Are... are there any checks you need to do or... can I be excused?"

Howard must've said something positive - Steve couldn't remember that part, it all blurred into a mess of screaming red white and blue - considering all he remembered about the rest of that afternoon was having the best God-given piss of his life, one that made his knees turn to jelly and his head tilt back. In all honesty, Steve was rather surprised that he hadn't pissed like that since. The serum had given him some amazing other-worldly sorts of powers... but alongside that, it had given him the irritating skill of being able to metabolise his food and drinks much quicker than he had when he was pre-serum - in other words that he had to pee a great deal more than usual - to the point where the sensations became like an itch that never seemed to be fully scratched. In itself, it didn't sound like too much of an issue; but added to the fact that, pre-serum Steve was biologically hardwired to have what was the tiniest bladder in all of Brooklyn, and the freshly created super-soldier had a... bit of an issue on his hands.   
Sometimes, 'a bit of an issue' was all it was, was all that Steve decided to define it as because when he could just excuse himself from conversation or duck out of the back of a room, that was all it felt like. Course, that didn't mean that sometimes it wasn't just, 'a bit of an issue'. Sometimes it was very much 'an issue'; such as when he was on a mission that dragged on for just a few minutes too long or had pulled himself away from where he had been lost inside his head pummelling a punchbag or…

Or… 

Well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, this was so weird to write. I've chipped away at it for a solid year now, re-written bits, taken bits out, added bits in - it's completely different to what it once was. Also honestly *whispers* I'm not a Steve stan. Not in terms of omorashi anyway. Tony dominates all of that so to even write about Steve like this was WEIRD. I was like ?????? would he act like this, do this, be like that? and then I sort of got into it. I feel like Steve would be judging me very badly right now. Sorry Mr. America sir.


	2. with wet anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He offered her a feeble smile of the ‘I am definitely not bursting for a piss right now’ variety (or so he hoped); feeling mildly thankful to her for at least tearing him away from torturing himself for the rest of their descent._
> 
> _“Descending now.” Nat nodded. Then - inevitably - “Are… you alright?”_
> 
> **No.** _“Yeah,”—a shift, thighs tightening, thick nervous sounding swallow—“just wondering, that’s all.”_
> 
> _She nodded, gaze narrowed. That was also known as ‘bullshit’ in Natasha Romanov language._
> 
> A return journey, a Quinjet with an unavailable bathroom, plus a secretly full to bursting super soldier. What could possibly go right?

“How long until touchdown?” Steve piped hesitantly, shifting from foot to foot. The team were on a return journey from a mission, packed into the Quinjet. They’d done this journey ten times over but this time it seemed to be dragging on, seconds stretched out, and all Steve could focus on was how badly he needed to piss. It became easier, surprisingly, to cope with while he was distracted. He supposed that was how he coped while he was drafted and now it was just magnified ten-fold, the need crushing in on his insides the second their mission was forgotten about, a gorgeous tight band around his midsection and urgent spikes to his belly that made his toes curl and his breath wick away in an attempt to hold on. It was made worse, he supposed, by the fact that this Quinjet’s bathrooms were out of action. Once a week they had to be refuelled and on this once a week the waste tanks were emptied. Except not this week, because Stark had forgotten to empty the waste tank. Just like he conveniently forgot to turn up to SHIELD meetings. 

The Tower, mercifully, had endless bathrooms. The closest of them was tucked away on the common room floor, mapped out in Steve’s mind every time he closed his eyes. He drummed his fingers against his thigh, throat tightening with need, already imagining getting inside and tearing his uniform off and—

Natasha twisted to look at him from where she was piloting. Somehow even when his eyes were closed and he was in some sort of daydream he could sense it. Opening his eyes quickly Steve flushed pink, feeling her drinking him in, and offered her a feeble smile of the ‘I am definitely not bursting for a piss right now’ variety (or so he hoped); feeling mildly thankful to her for at least tearing him away from torturing himself for the rest of their descent. 

“Descending now.” She nodded. Then - inevitably - “Are… you alright?”

 _No._ “Yeah,”—a shift, thighs tightening, thick nervous sounding swallow—“just wondering, that’s all.”

She nodded, gaze narrowed. That was also known as ‘bullshit’ in Natasha Romanov’s language. Steve said nothing. He didn’t want to fuel the fire. Because when there was no getting around Natasha there was no getting around the others, either. 

Steve was the first one out of the Quinjet, on account of being up and swaying before it had even landed, trying valiantly to ignore the stares he knew he was getting. Paradoxically he ended up last into the Tower; palms slick, he jogged for the closest bathroom almost on autopilot, face knitted into a mixed scowl of worry and urgency. He was close, and then closer still, and swallowing in anticipation he clasped the doorknob ready to swing the door open and duck inside and… 

“Occupied, sorry!”

Natasha. 

“…give me a few minutes!”

Steve swallowed again. Suddenly it wasn’t saliva he had to force back but vomit. “It’s— it’s fine,” he stammered—even if it was decidedly not fine, even if it was anything but fine—the next closest bathroom was on the floor up, just at the top of the stairwell and that one was his bathroom so the door was always unlocked ready for him…   
Although it was close it might as well have been across the Atlantic Ocean according to the tugging from his bladder, the protesting at relief pulled away so soon. A particularly nasty swipe had him hissing through his teeth, rubbing at the tender area through his spandex and heading for the stairs. So close, so close, so close, sang the voice nestled in the back of his mind, eyes trained on the door, one hand gripping the banister so tight he swore he could split it in two; the other relishing the relative privacy and thrust between his legs, gripping on even though he could feel spurts beginning to trickle past—no, not again, not here, he was going to make it—even though as he drew up each stair the movement pin pricked against his filling bladder—no—even though by the time he had gotten through the bathroom door his bladder was pounding in anticipation, dragging bigger and bigger spurts with it. “No…” Steve moaned between his teeth, gaze connecting with the wet spot that was forming on the front of his spandex, a perfect circle of darkened blue an _nghh!_ —and it was— _oh!_ —getting bigger and _uhhh_ —bigger by the… 

by the… 

“No, please,” Steve moaned, sliding against the closed door as relief sprouted all over; the ugly bulb in his midsection flowering out over his lower back and his knees until he was on the floor, panting, the thick stone in his stomach melting away. His spandex soaked up what they could as he did nothing but piss, a hiss roaring around the bathroom. He had tried to clench his muscles but, if anything, the spraying only grew heavier. His spandex glinted as piss pooled from the crotch and around his ass before connecting to a puddle on the floor.   
He didn’t know what was worse; the fact that he had been thrown head first to when he was in active duty and Bucky crooned in his ears that he wasn’t disgusting, far from it— or the fact that he had lay here and pissed and pissed himself and enjoyed it, all these tiny moans and whimpers and pleads cascading free.   
(Or, as he came back to reality and gingerly squeezed his soaked crotch, felt cool piss trickle against his inner thighs, and surveyed the damage; that he was going to have to get to his quarters with his uniform soaked-and-still-dripping, plastered to his skin. It was a short distance but still he ran that risk.)   
“God damn it.” he sniffed weakly, rising to his feet and wincing every time he squelched. He supposed he had no other choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help but think Steve's suit is a bit cumbersome in times of urgent need. At least Stark has the filter.
> 
> I told you these were short. Sorry!
> 
> Well, apart from the next one.


	3. meet the devil on my shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He watched Tony, willing him to get back to talking so he could finish this damned meeting and piss already. The devil on his shoulder appeared._ **Just get up and leave,** _he whispered. Steve gnawed his lip._ **Tony saw it fit to saunter in and out of meetings when it suited him, you could do the same and he couldn’t say anything about it.**  
>  _…Yeah. Yeah, that was a good point. Stark could shove his rules up his…_
> 
> It's a meeting day, a Tony Stark led meeting day, and all Steve wants to do is have five blessed minutes to piss himself stupid.

It was the weekly meeting. There was nothing particularly taxing about the weekly meeting. There never was. They would look at potential threats, talk through missions, talk through their newest recruits, talk tactical positions. Unless, of course, you counted ‘Tony deciding the meetings were too boring to attend,’ as particularly taxing. Well... actually, it was the weekly Avengers meeting and... Tony had decided to lead this particular session, so that made things a little more irritating. Tony had cornered Steve just as he was on his way into the bathroom, forcing Steve to have to pause his urgent little jogs. “Hey, Spangles,” he said (which already made the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck prickle) casually leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom and effortlessly preventing Steve from ducking inside. “Meeting, right? New recruits? Great. I’ll lead this one.”  
A frown came to Steve’s face and stayed there, one hand palm-flat on the door itching to push it open. His abdomen prickled at him. He shifted slightly again hoping it went unnoticed and sighed to himself. “Yeah... well, you don’t need to lead this one?” He began uneasily. 

“Oh no,” Tony said, “I can do this just fine. How about we schedule it right now?”

Steve sighed, hesitation flooding his features. "Can I just..." he nodded toward the bathroom door he was leaning rather urgently against. The hesitation that had flooded his features was quickly replaced by redness. 

Tony spluttered and even just that tiny noise was dripping with glee. “I said ‘right now’, didn’t I?”

Steve took a deep breath. It shuddered everything within him. His abdomen, still prickling ‘what are you doing’s across his midriff. He picked at the skin of his fingertips and dropped his hand from the door. It flicked, arced, ready to rub at his middle but—hyper-aware of Tony’s gaze on his—he forced it back. “…okay,” he nodded, cowed, and fell into step with Tony to the meeting room. It would only take an hour, tops. He could manage an hour. He had managed that before.  
~

Tony knew. Of course he did, because that didn’t explain the whole display he did, this elaborate little enactment of taking the water pitcher placed so tidily on his desk and loudly and deliberately pouring a large glass of water. “Sorry,” he swallowed, as the tinkling noise of liquid on glass filled the room, keeping the pitcher raised and tinkling softly as he scanned the Avengers in front of him. Nat, who quirked a brow but shrugged him off.  
Wanda, who secretly had earbuds in and paid Tony no attention.  
Sam, chin resting against the palm of his hand but feigning interest as any new recruit should.  
Clint, with his legs outstretched and propped up on a chair in front of him.  
Bruce, notebook and pen in hand, scribbling.  
Thor… off-world and doing something ten times more interesting, probably.  
…And Steve…?  
Steve wasn’t listening. Steve had his head on the desk and his hands over his ears and his legs going ten-to-the-dozen even though they were crossed at the ankles. Even with his hands over his ears, the tinkle was practically shouting in his ears, the sort of shout that went right down to his bladder and pushed. He whimpered, instinctively, not able to stop himself.

“I said, _terribly sorry_ , guys. Real thirsty.” Tony’s voice got a smidge louder. He had heard. Slowly Steve drew his head up. Tony raised the glass in his direction, a private little smile on his lips. “My throat’s a little dry.”

Good for you, thought Steve, shifting in place again. He watched Tony, willing him to get back to talking so he could finish this damned meeting and piss already. The devil on his shoulder appeared. **Just get up and leave,** he whispered. Steve gnawed his lip. **Tony saw it fit to saunter in and out of meetings when it suited him, you could do the same and he couldn’t say anything about it.**  
_…Yeah. Yeah, that was a good point. Stark could shove his rules up his…_

“As I was saying…” Tony chattered, pacing the floor, although the sound of a chair scraping against the floor quite violently cut him off. He didn’t have to look up to see who it was, and in fact, had to look to his feet and fight the smile that came to his lips. That had taken almost no time at all. He was almost disappointed. “…Steve, what— what do you think you’re doing?” He frowned, although there was no real anger in his face. 

Steve cleared his throat, nails digging hard into his clammy palms. “I, I need to take a break. I’ll be maybe, f- five minutes, and I’ll come straight back.” Oh, he tried so hard to keep his voice on an even keel but a pang from his bladder made his throat tighten in an attempt not to let out a pained little squeak. What happened instead was rapid tension in his body, top-to-toe, and an embarrassing prepubescent-little-boy sort of lilt to his voice. 

Tony shook his head. “…No, I don’t think you’ll be taking any breaks. You know the rules. Sit, listen, do the less important stuff afterwards.” He dipped his head in a ‘do-you-understand?’ sort of way. Steve stared at him, bewildered, swallowing thick and trying to ignore when his voice cracked a little. He had visions of himself standing up and sauntering on out, arms swinging, just like Tony had done so often to him when he headed the meetings… and so, that was exactly what he did. He decided what was ‘less important’ in his world. Shaking his head, he twisted on his heel and moved toward the door.  
“Skipping out on a meeting? Shocking. When virtuoso over here skips out on the meetings we know we’re in trouble,” Tony interjected, sarcastically theatric voice streaming over Steve’s head. “You’re breaking us apart, Cap!”  
Steve was trying his hardest not to pay attention, but as Tony teased him it was as if every pair of eyes had landed in Steve's direction, burning into him. He closed his eyes and willed longingly for his cheeks to not flood red, even though he could feel the burning colour leaking there all the same. There was a prickling in his knees and he needed so badly to jiggle and squirm but fought against it, fought with all of his might, Slowly he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in a desperate attempt to choke back his embarrassment - especially when Natasha squinted at him and started to giggle. He twisted on his heel again, giving in to the invisible pressure of his colleagues and backed toward his chair.  
"Fine," he said softly, settling back into his chair with an unhappy glare on his face.  
Suddenly, he knew exactly what this was all about. Tony had never been a fan of the weekly meetings and had always decided to skip out on them or duck out halfway through feigning illness... it had always been a bone of contention between the two, with Steve pleading for Tony to _just turn up to one full meeting, please, we are a team whether you like this or not we don’t just go with what you can dream up on the spot while NYC gets ravaged_ — and Tony... well - refusing. He had, after much cajoling, turned up to last week’s meeting then, halfway through as was usual for Tony, requested he leave. No, Steve said, but then found out from Natasha afterwards that Tony may have gotten himself into... a situation. And here they were, one week later... “Okay,” a neat, pleased nod from the billionaire was all it took to launch back into business. “so, the recruits. Who’s going to be in charge of training them up and scheduling them into missions? New guys, any requests?” Tony asked, surveying the roomful of Avengers and falling silent, awaiting a show of hands or an eager volunteer. Time seemed to slow down, the clock on the wall ticking patiently ...When nobody responded, he sighed. He rubbed one hand over his face. Then, he pointed to Steve. “…Actually, I think it should be you.” Steve had been distracted, mind floating off and telling him how he really needed to be getting up and going to the bathroom rather than sitting here listening to Stark stroking his ego and how dare he chicken out and settle again. “Me?” He flinched, biting back a grimace as something fluttered deep within his abdomen and sent shoots of pain up his thighs. His lip curled slightly. Why me? He wanted so badly to say, but sort of already knew the answer. “…Alright, that’s…” he swallowed hard, curving his hands into fists. “Fine.” ~

…It went easier than Steve had first anticipated if he was being honest. Natasha was with them, and she focused on chatting to Wanda initially. They tag-teamed their way through basic combative techniques, then Steve had Sam get his uniform on and do a few test flights and laps. A lazy session although it was purely for Steve’s benefit. With Sam focused on his flying Steve was able to give in to his longing just a little bit, and so his foot-to-foot shifts and bends at the knee became just that bit quicker. All the time, though, he had this mantra digging into his temples that Natasha was close by and nothing ever got by Natasha. The problem was, blatantly, the digging ache in his midsection. Although he tried his damned hardest, to suck in his stomach and tense up nice and tall, his middle throbbed constantly, throbs that branched all down his legs over and over until he admitted defeat, gasping out a hard breathy, ‘oh!’ and doubling over. Natasha dared glance at him for a few seconds and he swallowed nervously, straightening out. “I, I have a stitch,” he murmured the first time; although when his ‘oh’s grew in frequency and transformed into tight whimpers while his fidgets became hard marches on the spot he wasn’t exactly sure she believed that excuse.  
Nevertheless, she said nothing about it. …Well, nothing except, “You do realise you haven’t had your eyes on him for like, nearly ten minutes?” Shrugging, she turned her attention skyward. “Sam, great job. Come back to the ground, tell us how it’s feeling.” 

Coughing nervously, Steve turned his attention to the Falcon, who had just landed with a soft thump. “Your suit, what do you think?” He asked softly, although tugging and picking at his waistband all the while. As he stood there, unable to really squirm, the tight belt on his pants dug into the soft, swollen skin of his middle. It didn’t quite squeeze but it wasn’t exactly the nicest sensation, sort of dragged everything downwards, and when that happened it stung right at his tip, and so he had to shudder or clench or wriggle or something that wasn’t going to have him flood his jeans. 

Sam caught the movement - that and the uncomfortable little grimace - but only frowned. “Uh, yeah it’s… fantastic. Feels great. Nice velocity. Stark really pulled out all the stops.”

Steve nodded. “Great job. Uh, guys, Nat will pass you some water and if you…” he gestured to the patio doors, leading back into the tower. “If you just head back inside, we can get you checked over by Bruce and Dr Cho in the medbay. Nice and quick, just some—” another urge, that squeezy dragging sensation again, damn his tight belt, damn it all - and this time a big wet pearl that dripped into his boxers; his mouth dropped open, he let out a pained little, ‘u-uhh…’ of surprise, fists clenching to stop it. He did, and although there was nothing to show for it on his jeans, there was a steady damp slick in his boxers the size of an orange. “—some boring paperwork, heh.”

“Dude,” Sam caught the waterbottle Natasha threw him and fell into step alongside Steve as he headed inside, whispering. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to yourself. Just go.” It didn’t take a genius to see what was wrong with Steve, and Sam was no genius. If the head-in-the-clouds behaviour didn’t tip him off, the awkward stuttering musical-statues deal did. He looked around, gesturing to the copse of trees that surrounded the backyard. “If it’s that bad just…” Shrug. “…spray down a tree or something—”  
Steve winced, body stiffening, what-do-you-think-I’ve-been-trying-not-to-do-for-the-last-thirty-minutes etched all over his face and Sam winced in return. “…sorry.”He didn’t get it. Surely it was no secret, it was practically stitched into every man’s DNA that hosing down a couple of trees or a thirsty looking alleyway was the first thing you did when you were bursting. Hell, he was in the air forces — knew better than anyone there were no bathrooms up in the skies. Many a time had Sam gotten closely acquainted with an empty Mountain Dew bottle, or if he was very lucky it was a ‘switch all the comms off, land the plane, make rivers behind the nearest tree’ sort of job. Come to think of it, he’d known Steve a while by now - their early morning runs paved the way to an easy friendship - and not once had Steve ever had to cut it short, duck behind a tree, or go in hunt of the dingy park toilets. Many a time Sam had fallen to this fate, loading blame on the fact that he was so eager to meet Steve each morning everything else had fallen to the wayside, but not Steve. And Sam would know because if the last thirty minutes had been anything to go by then… eh, he really wasn’t the greatest at hiding it.

“I’ll…” Steve stammered a little, stepping on his toes as he tried to squeeze past brick-wall Sam, the comforting presence of the Tower caressing his swollen middle and teasing out the spurts he had tried so hard to keep in. “Ooh—!—mmm, I’ll… be fine.” A longer dash went into his boxers and his voice went a little breathy-squeaky on the edges trying to gain back control before he pissed here right here in front of Sam. His fist clenched a little, turning the corner with Sam at his heels he knew he was close, on instinct, and his quick walk turned into a quick tightly-tucked jog. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Sam murmured, brow quirked, but Steve was quicker, eyes trained on the bathroom door in front of him. “Yes!” He could have cried. Darting into the bathroom, the slam of the door behind him cut off Sam’s reply; yet darting into the closest cubicle, Steve barely had the time to slam the stall door behind him before he was attempting to pull himself out, fingers trembling in anticipation. He licked his lips, mumbling incoherently to himself, fingers fumbling with his belt. Oh... he pleaded with himself, oh please, come on...  
At this point, Steve was sure he was toying with the idea of straddling the toilet and pissing full throttle through his clothes... although he didn't quite want to give Stark the satisfaction of seeing him like... that, afterwards. His breathing came slow, steady, breaking slightly on the ends as he teetered on the verge of letting go entirely, wetness already beginning to pool ever so slightly in his boxers from just trickled drips. That orange-sized wet patch was quickly on its way to becoming banana sized.  
As a thick droplet welled at the tip he just about managed to yank himself free from the confines of his pants and aim, shakily, at the toilet. His vision misted with tears before a long squirt splattered out, noisily hitting the water beneath. At the tiny droplet of relief - as slight as it was - Steve let out a great whooping breath that he hadn't even realised he'd been holding. His voice crackled, wet, surprised. "Fu--" he breathily stuttered, the word dancing on his tongue but not quite getting pulled out as his hand came roughly to the head of his cock. Steve squeezed lightly, stopping the stream from gushing out all in one - and shivering at the ache that forked down his spine. Slowly, his grip lessened; the shivering intensified, his mouth soured - knowing, anticipating what was coming next. He licked his lips slightly, watching hungrily as a thick droplet collected at his tip, thicker and thicker before the dam burst like the cork in a glittering bottle of champagne, forcing a great long arch of foaming piss down into the water beneath him and, at the same time, ripping a gasp of pure pleasure out of him. His eyes clouded over with relief, eyelids slipping closed. "Oh, fuck," Steve said - or at least, that was what he thought he had said, for he couldn't quite hear himself over the sound of his piss roaring, blood pounding relief. The gush transformed into a vicious, unrelenting spray that plummeted free.  
Everything had blurred into one. He was floating somewhere far away, long gone from the dingy bathroom, body light. Weakness flowered in the backs of his knees, pulled messily together as though he were going to sink. Instead (for he could not sink to his knees in a dingy bathroom) Steve put his head back and shifted in place, pissing and pissing himself silly. Steve couldn't remember the last time he had pissed this hard, nor the last time the buzzing relief had gone straight to his head.  
It... it felt like it would never end... hell, he marvelled at the fact he could even contain this much inside him. Eventually, though, as shivers of relief massaged his shoulders and tears pricked his lashes, the stream slowed to a calm stop. Steve groaned again, louder this time, and the final gasp that forced its way out of his mouth made him sound as though he had been... as though he had...

Fuck. Steve stumbled backwards as the relief seemed to properly kick in, something shivering and soft blooming over his entire body with only a gentle thud in his bladder to show for it. He collapsed against the stall door as he gave in to relief… but just about kept himself from sliding down it.

Snivelling slightly, Steve shook out the dribbles and got himself situated back into his clothes before ducking out of the stall and moving to wash his hands. He thought he had got away with it, and so the tightness in his chest dissipated somewhat... although the sight of Tony Stark washing up at the sink bowled a sickly ball of panic into him headfirst instead. How he hadn’t seen him on the way in was a mystery (…although he was sure the shock of seeing the man would have jolted the piss out of him anyway.) He prayed Tony wouldn't say anything, would just up and leave, and so he tucked himself up as small as he could go on his way to the washbasins. 

"Well well well," Tony chuckled, a smirk dancing on his lips as he slung one soapy hand under the water spray. Steve sniffed, looked up for a fleeting few seconds before looking back down again. He put his own hands into the basin and said nothing. 

"Filthy." Tony continued, probing, still smirking. 

Steve looked up, feigning ignorance. "Hm?" he asked as innocently as he could muster, praying that his burning cheeks didn't give him away. He could feel himself blushing to the tips of his ears. 

"Absolutely filthy, Mr Rogers. A shocking display of language."

Oh.  
That.  
Steve dried his hands and, still embarrassed, couldn't bring himself to meet Tony's gaze. He didn't - couldn't - say anything in response... so just let the silence gather as he dried off his hands and twisted on his heel to leave the bathroom. In all honesty, he longed to forget about the events that had unfolded this evening, even though he was sure that just being in that room for any further meetings or having to go to that particular bathroom again would be enough to bring him out in a cold sweat of utter shame. Just as he headed out to clear his head, however...

"Steve." 

Tony. Steve sighed to himself and turned to face Tony once more. "What?"

Tony swallowed, as though he was having some trouble getting his words out, or perhaps was still thinking of them. "I'm sorry," he said after what felt like an eternity of waiting. "I... I didn't expect you to... feel this bad." He cringed to himself. "I was... only trying to teach you a lesson."  
Now that he'd said it, it sounded childish, and it most certainly would to Steve. 

Indeed, Steve didn't know if he should laugh or cry at this response and what came out of his mouth was a cross between a weak laugh and a scoff. "Some lesson," he said hollowly. 

"N- no, but..." Tony tried to grasp at words that weren't quite there. "You just need to... loosen up. I don't skip out on the meetings because I think they're pointless."

 _Yes, you do,_ Steve thought to himself. 

"I'm not sneaking off. I just..." Tony trailed off, shrugging. "Need to drain the tank. I'm not superhuman like you, Spangles."

Steve snorted. As if that particular display somehow made him, ‘superhuman’. He knew first hand that being superhuman didn’t exactly grant you bladder control. He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. "Alright... alright, whatever." he waved his hand dismissively. "I can relax the rules some. As... as long as you don't tell anybody about it. If anybody asks, I was sick." he said firmly. He knew Clint and Bruce wouldn't have been paying attention, but Natasha... Natasha was another story. 

Tony nodded agreeably, and that gave Steve a whole new kind of relief. His shoulders sagged. 

"Anyway," Tony hummed as the two left the bathroom together. "Weekly Avengers movie night with the new guys tonight, you in?"

"When am I not?" Steve shrugged, relieved that the day's events were already being forgotten. A tiny smile played on his lips. "What are we watching?"

"Star Trek, I think." Tony nodded. "Okay, then. I'll make you up the special." he grinned boyishly. "Don't say no."

Tony fancied himself something of a mixologist in his spare time. His cocktails usually ended up on the menu every movie night, although Steve was the only person who could knock them all back long after everybody else was paralytic.  
And, well... Tony suddenly rather wanted to toy with Steve a little more. The supersoldier had no limit when it came to getting drunk... but when it came to getting desperate...?

This revelation was going to make the Avengers movie nights a _lot_ more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you this one was long. 
> 
> This is the original 'bandaids over bruises' story. This and the first chapter. That was the entire fic, as much as I'd written anyway. I scrapped it, threw bits out, and ended up with this.
> 
> Oh and turns out, Sam might not have everything entirely right about his super soldier best friend. ;)


	4. on your left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Please,** pleaded the devil sat on his shoulder, flicking his tail around Steve’s middle and squeezing playfully, **spray down a tree why don’t you** —and God, he couldn’t. Sam was just coming into his vision anyway, half saluting-half-waving and Steve loved the guy and their competitive laps each morning but he certainly wasn’t about to whip his dick out in front of him._
> 
> Steve has to make a detour during his early morning laps of Central Park.

“I beat him, once.” Sam chuckled, biting into his taco and giving Steve a knowing, smug little nod. “Just once,” he nudged his chest, prideful, “I was the fastest.”

Movie night, as promised, came like clockwork. The drinks flowed, everyone spurred on by none other than Tony himself. Not that Steve could enjoy it, not like the rest of them, not when the serum had taken away his ability to get even the tiniest bit drunk. Not that he particularly wanted to get drunk, anyway, not with the serum’s other parting gift – especially not when Sam was sharing this particular story. He laughed lightly all the same, even as a murmur of surprise swept around his teammates and brought just the slightest pinch of colour to his cheeks. He stared into his whiskey as if it was capable of wicking away his embarrassment, swilling it mindlessly around in the glass. Although this was the first time the rest of the Avengers were learning about this particular anecdote, Sam had crowed and beamed endlessly to Steve about his victory. It wasn’t that Steve was a sore loser – far from that – in fact, Steve enjoyed sharing Sam’s happiness about it. Rather, it was the fact that Steve had no other choice but to let him win; let him win and choke it back, handwave it off as a ‘bad day’ even if Steve Rogers, Supersoldier, hadn’t stared a bad day in the face since he was defrosted. The other creeping thorn in his side was, well, the rest of the team knew Steve Rogers, Supersoldier, and they knew just as well as he did that he didn’t just have ‘bad days’ and so it wasn’t just Sam but all of them, every single person in that room, coming close to finding out Steve Rogers, Supersoldier, and the uncomfortable little secret he’d tried so hard to hide.

Well; you know what they say. When nature calls…

Five o’clock.   
He was woken at five o’clock every morning and had been for as long as he could remember, usually with that uncomfortable swollen sensation in his abdomen that had him stumble half asleep in the direction of the bathroom - even as a whimpering tiny child. When he was enlisted, the five o’clock wakeup meant it was time to begin drills, and so nature’s calling came even earlier, an un-scratchable 4:30 am itch that had him toss and turn.   
Even now, even in the comfort of the Tower, he always woke at five. Sometimes out of habit, mostly out of need. Once he had woken up and dealt with the most bursting issue it was straight to the kitchen for breakfast and then a half-hour, maybe an hour if he got carried away, working at the punchbag. Then it was to Central Park, laps all the way around, and only afterwards would he feel ready to face the day. Of course, by the time he had done his laps and headed back in the direction of the Tower, he would be tremblingly desperate again, but he always made it just in time… albeit perhaps slightly before he could even get the seat up. That was his routine, blocked out neatly one-after-the-other every morning, and he was used to it now. 

“Rogers!” Tony beamed in a suspiciously-too-chipper voice, sipping from his coffee mug and watching the soldier prepare breakfast from a comfortable position leaned against the kitchen island. Fully dressed, Steve noticed out of the corner of his eye, he was dressed. Odd, for this time of the morning. 

Steve felt his heart sink. He liked the slow early morning he got to himself, drinking down OJ in the quiet. “Stark,” he nodded, pouring himself a glass of orange juice and sipping it quickly. Stark never got up this early. Not to socialise with the team, anyway, and not without reason. 

“Drills this morning, remember?”

“Drills?” Steve stepped on his feet a little bit, alternating bites of toast with sips of OJ. 

“…Some shitty SHIELD thing.” Tony rolled his eyes. “7 am. No doubt you’ll nail it, Popsicle.” His tone of voice suggested he seemed to roll his eyes even harder, even though he actually didn’t. “Even after your morning run.”

It was quiet for a while, pleasantries exchanged when three small glasses of OJ later Steve’s bladder was beginning to nag again, as it always did. It was so much a part of his routine now - two bathroom breaks, breakfast sandwiched in between - that he almost didn’t notice it, and when he did it was persistent and pressing, a warm sting in his middle. Putting his empty glass and the pitcher into the sink, Steve rose. 

“Steve?” Tony asked. Steve froze and hated it. He didn’t answer. Maybe if he didn’t answer then…

“Steve, can you help me?” Softer now, a little flush of insecurity. “These drills, if I fail they’ll throw me off the team… I- I can’t risk that and I’m…” a thick swallow, some hesitation. “I dunno, I just, I think I need your help.”

Steve winced. Always a sucker for the guy who needed help. “…Sure, but I need to—!”

“Great!”

“I said—!”

“No, really!” Tony beamed, clapping his shoulder on his way out, and Steve squirmed into himself a little once he was out of sight. Well, it was only for an hour at best… 

An hour later, Steve stepped out. The air was cool, kissing him between the thighs the second he pulled the door shut, and he shuddered into himself. Practice drills with Tony had worked out entirely as he had suspected, with his need to pee climbing steadily and his requests to stop to use the bathroom getting lost in breathless shyness as they ran together. Now, he had a nice little stone in his middle, hot and urgent and not whatsoever what he wanted to feel while he was about to run some more laps. Nonetheless, he thought to himself, he had the brisk walk to Central Park first, and he could think of a solution then. Pulling his earbuds out of his ears, Steve moaned softly to himself. As much as he’d tried to immerse himself in his podcast he was finding his concentration fluttered and waned while the urges in his bladder grew heavier. Stepping over his toes, childishly, he came to a slow stop in the tree-covered park. _Please,_ pleaded the devil sat on his shoulder, flicking his tail around Steve’s middle and squeezing playfully so that his breath hitched all tight and he had to press his legs together, _spray down a tree why don’t you_ —and it had never been more tempting but God, he couldn’t, and Sam was just coming into his vision anyway, half saluting-half-waving and Steve loved the guy and their competitive laps each morning but he certainly wasn’t about to whip his dick out in front of him. Waving in return and managing a particularly lopsided smile, he uttered the immortal words, “Laps?” and his fate was sealed just a few seconds later as Sam scoffed and said, “You know it.”They’d never arranged anything seriously - just met by coincidence, over and over, and here they were - and slowly Steve swayed and bopped from side to side as he waited for Sam to get into position aside him. 

They set off at the same second. Steve took an immediate lead, as he usually did, and for a moment he dared to think that maybe he’d be okay—that was his downfall—because a couple of strides in he realised it was like wading through treacle. Each stride he took was another punch to his middle, over and over the further he got, and the more punching he endured the slower he became, dying to curl over in the middle and squeeze on for dear life. At first, he couldn’t, at first he had to make do with stepping on his feet and taking a few pull-yourself-together deep breaths, but then—squeeze—it was clear that the childish foot stepping—tug—wasn’t working out. You should really just give in, said the devil on his shoulder again,—(and as he ran he noticed just how much his attention was tugged away to the copse of trees around him)— just sink and let it all go, even though he knew he couldn’t do that, not in front of everybody, not in front of Sam. His bladder spasmed, devil squeezing tight, and he groaned… and for the first time in, well, ever, Steve stumbled to a slow stop. He gripped his thighs, bending slightly, as this great ball of hot pressure rolled its way to his edge and his bladder pulsed harder, harder still, impatient and ohh God he was going to lose it if he carried on. He staggered, panting—oh it hurt!—and ducked into a shadowy looking coven of trees.   
_Please, God_ , Steve begged to himself, fumbling with his bottoms, _please God don’t let anyone see me_. He whipped himself out, breath hitching as anticipation seemed to flood directly to his dick, oh please, oh please, oh please…   
but nothing came.   
He shifted. He tried to relax head to foot, he tried forcing it out in a rush, he tried visualising the heaviest waterfall he possibly could, but all it yielded was a sharp stab to his middle and a few pathetic little trickles every now and then. “Ah-!” He gasped, teetering hopefully on his tiptoes, watching the little golden beads roll forward, willing—please!—for a spluttered little burst, tiny rivulet, or pathetically small stream to begin. But there was nothing. Nothing except for the familiar pulsing at his tip that reminded him of his relentless need to empty.Wetness prickled, coming not from where it was supposed to but from his eyes; all frustrated and stinging because this was what always happened, why was this what always happened?!See, you would think—being a soldier—Steve would have gotten used to peeing al-fresco. His fellow soldiers, after all, had no qualms about pissing where they kneeled - besides, there was no time to worry about it, anyway. But not Steve. Oh, make no mistake, he was no prude; but there was nothing that could help him relax enough to join in - nothing, not even when he had the most desperate of urges. Bucky had tried, massaging the tender swell, pressing a little harder in response to his whimpers and hitching breathing (sometimes, if alone, cooing sweet nothings to him to coax him into relaxing) - but it rarely gave relief aside from maybe a few teasing arcs. The only time he was able to relax was when he ducked into the latrines a few feet from the trenches—and even then he had to do so listening to groans and scoffs of, “aw, Rogers, not again!” and while trying to fight against the embarrassed clenching of his muscles and the heat in his cheeks. 

“You’re not here, you’re not doing this right now, you’re at home…” Steve whispered to himself, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. It was counterintuitive, perhaps, but it was the only way he could coax his tense muscles into relaxing.   
He was at home. The Tower was home enough. Stark had given him his own private bathroom, tucked away from everyone, and whatever went on in there was concealed, for him and him only… His thighs, tremblingly hot and aching, slowed to a stop… and with it - finally - a slow and pitiful stream, pit-patting against the soft earth. Steve moaned, low and sweet, relief prickling low in his belly. _Keep it going, please please keep it going,_ he had to mentally coax himself, as the slow stream ran and ran. But even now, as he stood hidden in the trees, the jeering cackles of fellow soldiers and friends hit his ears. Was that the murmured chatter of a dog-walker, an early morning runner or - fear pooled and froze over in the pit of his stomach, strangling him so hard his urgently-needed piss died out in an instant - could it be Sam?He imagined Sam creeping through the copse in search of him, saw the disgusted look on his face, the spluttered laugh of disbelief bubbling forth as a little droplet ran down the underside of his head and onto the wet ground, “Really? You couldn’t wait?” Sam’s voice dripping (ironically, more than Steve himself was) in mocking amusement.   
Steve’s eyes exploded open; suddenly aware of his surroundings, of the roaring thud of his heart and his bladder at the same time. _No… no, he was alone still. Sam wasn’t here, Sam didn’t know where he was or what he was doing._   
He choked in a shuddered breath. Reassurance lapped in slow waves over him, eyes trained on the tree he was poised to water, and this time as he started to piss it was thick and gorgeously heavy, running in dark glistening lines down the tree bark and then, at its heaviest, in tiny mud pools at his feet.   
His lip quivered in blessed relief, and he was frozen to the spot until the pattering fell to a quiet. 

“Phew,” he murmured to himself with a final decisive shudder, shaking and tucking everything back where it should’ve been, taking a moment to run his fingers across his middle and relish the way it now felt flat and only mildly ticklish. And—a quick check of the time—he could squeeze in at least ten minutes of laps before having to head back to the Tower. Jogging back out of the trees he searched for Sam; the sight of the man brought a smile to his face. “Sam! Hi!”

“Hey!” A broad smile. “Where did you go?” Sam stilled, falling into step beside his friend. Steve gave him a small smile in return, finding that as he walked with his friend the prior events already became a distant memory. 

Steve shrugged lightly, kicking at the dirt. “Felt a little off colour.” He smiled apologetically. 

Sam nodded, sympathetic, but a grin quirked the corners of his mouth. “Does this mean I beat you?”

“Whoa. Let’s not go that far.” Steve teased. He shook his head, jovial. “…I guess so, yeah. Fair and square.”

“Awesome. Sorry you feel like shit, though.”

Steve shrugged it off. The less he knew, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that Sam and Steve don't run in Central Park in CA:TWS (it's in Washington DC, Central Park is in Manhattan) but Central Park is close to the Tower (ish?) and Steve lives there so... / shrug / 
> 
> Poor Steve. 
> 
> The next chapter is the last one and it's my FAVOURITE. I keep going back to it all the time, I love it. I also might up the rating on this. IDK why. It's not really that sexual in itself but I imagine a younger teen reading this and getting grounded until their thirties lmfao so mmmm. Maybe!


	5. golden boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“…is he drunk?”_
> 
> _“Uhhh… uh…” he stammered, face flooding red, no matter his efforts to clamp the gush and continue when he had relative privacy the best he could do was slow it to a steady-running stream. He slumped on the stool._
> 
> _“Something like that, yeah.”_
> 
> Tony sees Steve reach his limit.

“Drink?”

Steve stared straight through the amber bottle, a shiver swirling low in his stomach. He jerked one leg in time with the other from where he was sat, back pressed ramrod straight against the couch. Five down and the thought of a sixth bloating his already bursting midsection made him want to cry. “No,” he had to yank his hand free from where it was gripping his thigh and he had to do so without looking in the slightest bit bothered, but still a scratchy whimper of hesitation dropped free. “No thanks, Tony,” and God, Steve had never felt a need like this, not where it hurt his entire body, not where it sent shuddering spikes through his middle for, seemingly, even daring to speak. His voice came out strangled, desperate around the edges. “…I- I think I’m at—” His mouth soured, body jeering at him, sending flickers of sickening heat to his cheeks.  
He swallowed thickly. Squirmed. “my limit.”

Tony’s gaze narrowed instantly, sharp and pin-pointed like a dagger slicing through Steve entirely; it sent tendrils of shame into Steve’s stomach, a long-stamped-on reminder of the taunting irritation of his fellow soldiers, and only made him want to tuck in even tighter. “You’re at your limit?” Tony said. He said it, laughter feathering the edges of his voice, for the rest of the team’s benefit, as though Steve had just had one too many to drink and, fuck, he had – but not exactly in the way they thought. “No, you’re not. You can’t be.”--Incredulity now, faux, because Tony knew just as well as Steve did that he was at his limit and had been for a while—“you’re Captain America.”

Steve laughed, soundlessly, without meaning to laugh in the slightest, and the way he jerked forward, whimpering, hands fumbling blindly in his lap, was magnificent (or at least it was for Tony, anyhow; Steve was too focused on trying not to piss himself to care.) “Suit yourself,” Tony shrugged, popping the cap off of the beer bottle and taking a deep sip. “Tastes good.” He watched the fidgeting super-soldier for a short while longer, sliding the bottle aside when Steve’s restless squirming was doing more to satiate his boredom than drinking was. He didn’t know what he found so captivating about it. He’d seen enough in his playboy days, had more than a handful of uncomfortably achingly-full encounters, ended up sunk on his knees waiting for the order that he could piss; and had women writhe over him, guiding little trickles of pee down his body until he gave them the command to let go entirely… but it didn’t do much for him, not in that sense; he was just… sickly fascinated. Especially so where Steve was concerned, where the voice of his father in the back of his mind told him about Steve Rogers, golden boy, and here he was – just as weak as the rest of the people in the room, yanked down to Earth with a squelch. Well… that and the fact that his previous attempt, at the movie night, fell flat. Sam took the thunder, crowing about that one time he beat Steve during their early morning laps, and Steve had (quite disappointingly) sort of retreated into himself a few drinks in and, the rest of the night, petered out. Which… well, golden boy could do what he wanted, but where was the fun in that?He shook his head. “Come on.”Tony had made no error since that night, cornering the super-soldier at every available opportunity to remind him that their game hadn’t yet been played. Giving golden boy the opportunity to shake his head and bow out of the entire thing, of course, because he wasn’t a heartless asshole. Still, Steve hadn’t ducked away from it now the night was here, sort of leaned into it actually - probably to get Tony to shut his goddamned mouth about the whole thing - and here they were. 

Steve’s eyes were bright and glisteningly wet. He looked up at Tony in confusion. 

“I think I’ve got something to keep you occupied for a little while longer.”  
-

Sitting at the bar, Steve could have cried trying to tug his legs together. “This… isn’t what I had in mind,” he rasped, fingers fumbling for the neck of a wine bottle as a partygoer emerged from the crowd and requested a cocktail. His entire body shook and jerked in a desperate attempt to contain his own liquid, as he worked the cork from the bottle. Please, no, he pleaded, watching as a little eye of foam appeared at the tip. Please don’t spill over… Please God, somebody, anybody, don’t let it spill over….

(He had already spilled two cocktails. 

“Steve!” Tony hissed, watching as in almost slow motion a glass tumbled from the blond’s fingers for the second time. “Seriously, this shit’s expensive.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorr-ah!-y,” Steve pleaded in return, squirming around pathetically as a teasing spurt gushed forward. Nothing showed on his jeans but the front of his boxers, he felt, was quickly growing. “Ohhhh, shit, oh shit--” he stammered to himself between his teeth, leaning forward to grab at himself, “—I’m- I’m sorry, it won’t-- I- I won’t do it again!”

“What are you, distracted?” Tony teased, Steve tucking his legs together at the ankles and rocking back and forth. “Here. Ease the distraction.”

He held out a glass of Martini to the man, with a pathetic amount of Martini actually inside it, but Steve’s stomach clenched. “Tony, I- I can’t.” he begged, rocking harder at the prospect of filling himself to the brim. 

“I can’t have you smashing all my glasses, Spangles.” Nonchalant, Tony stuck an olive onto the glass rim. “This isn’t a freebie, ‘round’s on me’ sort of deal. This is your punishment.”  
He pressed the glass to Steve’s lips, both he and Steve knowing that the supersoldier wasn’t quite at his limit yet. Steve hated himself in that moment. He hated the forks stabbing in his gut, the constant resistant-band of pressure, the curl of nausea in his throat and cheeks as he choked the drink down. It burned against his throat as it went and he imagined it dropping instantly into his bloated bladder, all the while mewling pitifully, nails raking hard lines into the tops of his thighs. His bladder pounded and squeezed and itched with every gulp, urging him closer and closer to pissing himself, and so he let out a low spluttering moan every now and then – but he drank, and he drank, and he hated himself.

Tony wiped a little droplet that had stayed on Steve’s lip. 

“Mm. Good job. Don’t be so clumsy next time.”)

The champagne bottle pfffft’ed out air; Steve followed with his own shaky gasp. Pouring with one hand, the other kneaded desperately at his crotch in an attempt to ignore the tinkle-on-tinkle of water on glass. Somehow, it was all he could hear; permeating the hot bubbling chatter around him – the roaring thud of his pulse and his bladder and his thick breaths rolling into one another. “There you go, heh,” Shaky-grinned and trembling he thrust the glass toward the woman, gnawing nervously at his lip as a little splashed out onto the counter and at the same time, a thicker, wetter spurt came into his boxers. His face reddened and his gaze snapped to his lap as the spurt leaked, growing teasingly and apple shaped on his innermost right thigh. “Oh sh-nonono--!” He hissed, grunting, teetered forward-back on the stool to slow the gush. It didn’t stop. It didn’t stop because he couldn’t ever stop once he’d started, not really – not ever. It hurt when he tried, hurt and made him moan, all silent ugly grunts and panted pleads with himself.Pee crept slow and hot along his inner thighs and for a moment, a tiny sick moment, Steve wondered if he could give in. It was a party, after all, even Stark had pissed himself during at least a handful of their parties. The thought of this made him hot with shame, as his stream burst out quicker for just a slow handful of seconds—bursting, hissing heat deep in the fabric of his crotch, the kind that tugged through him, folding him over in the middle, dying to keep him there peeing and peeing and peeing. There was a pitter-patter somewhere in the curl of his ear and – perhaps a few seconds too late – Steve realised the dribbled beginnings of a puddle were collecting on the floor. No, he thought to himself, spurting, no, he begged, dribbling, no, he grunted and pleaded and jammed his legs together cutting the stream off even if it made a jolt run through his spine as though he had just been electrocuted, no, you idiot, as he gripped his length and moaned pitifully - although he wasn’t sure if he was more upset at the wetness that greeted his hand or the heavy ache that told him even more, he had to let go even more.

“…Jesus Christ, Rogers.” 

Steve closed his eyes, embarrassment gripping his entire body, heat marbling his cheeks a gorgeous shade of red. His legs jerked, giving Tony peeks of the wet patch, size of a melon and growing, on his jeans. “Look at you. You’re a mess.”

“Can’t hold it,” Steve whimpered, eyes wet, rocking forward as he gripped himself. When he spoke it was as though he was being strangled. “Nnnnot.. nghh.. not much longer…”

“The bathroom’s not that far away,” Tony scoffed, brow quirked, “It’s just upstairs, where it’s always been.”  
“Tony I _can’t_ ,” Steve pleaded wildly. The thought of crossing the room and making the trek upstairs was something he barely wanted to entertain, not when he knew he’d piss himself before he’d even make it half way – and in front of all these people…

He almost sounded like he was going to cry, which was a new reaction entirely, at least for Stark. He’d never been good with criers. And, well, he’d never seen Steve like this before. Not even at that meeting had he seen Steve like this, and Steve had it hard then. Rubbing his temple, he sighed, eyeing up the bar. He took his bottle of beer and uncapped it, downing the last dregs even though they were lukewarm and offered forward the bottle. “It’s empty,” he said, pointedly.

Steve didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed the bottle with sweaty fingers, it nearly sliding from his grip and tearing a frayed, involuntary little ‘oh!’ from his mouth but Tony caught it, chuckling, and although the sound made his cheeks blaze Steve was sure he could have kissed him there and then. Unzipping—trying not to wince at the cooling pool of wetness that greeted him—he stuffed the bottle down the front of his jeans and rocked forward - concealed, hidden… even if he was just tucked behind the bar in a room full of people he was well on his way past the point of no return, already going. An ache throbbed and ebbed right at his tip, you-can-go-now, you-can-go-now and Steve took a shuddering breath in, anticipation salty on his tongue, beads collecting at his edge and teasingly slow plink-plinking into the bottom of the bottle but please he pleaded not again, not now, please but the more he pleaded with himself, the more he tried to convince himself of his solitude the more the knot in his middle said otherwise and so he was sat there, massaging his swollen bladder, moans dragging themselves across his teeth whenever the plinks turned into a burst or a gush in the hope that this was it. . .

“Hey, Steve, can I get a mai-tai?”

Steve shot up from where he was curled up in his bar stool, wrestling with the ugly grunt that dared rip itself from his mouth as fear shot through him and unworked the cork, so to speak; a hard gush went splattering thick into the bottle, a gush all fierce and desperate and so, so fucking needed--but not now, why now--that he could have fucking cried. “Uhhh… uh…” he stammered, face flooding red, no matter his efforts to clamp the gush and continue when he had relative privacy the best he could do was slow it to a steady-running stream. He shifted, streaming still, and wondered if she could hear the smack of piss on glass that seemed so loud to his ears. “Um, I can.. yeah…” his face flooded red-white in blissed relief, his own words distant to him but, dazed, he twisted to grab the cocktail shaker just in front of him. That moment, that tiny twist of an inch was when he finally gave in fully… and what a masterpiece it was; the twitch as his hand fell in relief, the ‘mm—!’ as he slumped backwards on the stool (not forgetting the tiny parting of his lips and the ‘ah..’ that followed) and stayed entirely still, panting slow, groaning quiet, letting everything pour unrestrained from his tortured bladder. It came spraying and heavy and he couldn’t have stopped it even had he wanted to.

(He wasn’t quite sure what relief hit him first; the relief of finally getting to empty and feeling the knot in his midsection unravel, or the split-second dazed realisation that it was Tony who had said, “Pep, come here, I make better mai-tais,” and when she had asked, “…is he drunk?” he had responded, “Something like that, yeah.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE this one. Really love it. I mean yeah Pepper probably would've guessed what was wrong but I want piss damn it. Well, that and embarrassment. Mwahahaha. I ain't even care if all of you hate this one because I love it that much. I mean okay so he's not so pee shy here but he was losing it anyway. AND I LOVE THIS ONE. 
> 
> All done. :)
> 
> I am aware it needs editing and I will do so in the coming days. Thank you for reading - I appreciate it and I hope you got some enjoyment out of at least one of these ficlet things :)


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